


Trust

by periodicallypyrrhic88



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blackwall - Freeform, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Humor, Iron Bull - Freeform, M/M, Male Inquisitor (Dragon Age) - Freeform, Male Lavellan - Freeform, Male Mage Lavellan - Freeform, Male Slash, Mild Sexual Content, Size Difference, Varric Tethras (POV), discovering feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 03:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18422190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/periodicallypyrrhic88/pseuds/periodicallypyrrhic88
Summary: Having spent years in Kirkwall, Varric is more than a bit suspicious of the presence of The Iron Bull and the likeness he's seemed to have taken to the Inquisitor, Mahanon Lavellan, afraid that his attentions are only part of some ploy to ultimately harm the Inquisition. Varric watches The Iron Bull closely, and through time comes to see the truth of the qunari's intentions through his actions, unaware that he's been being watched by one eye the entire time, too.





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Varric's point of view and featuring my Inquisitor Mahanon Lavellan. Implied sexual content, but this is really mostly pure, unadultered fluff about their romance, spanning through several months time. Most of the companions are featured and mentioned, special shoutout to Blackwall.

It wasn't hard to recall the moment Varric Tethras first laid eyes on the elf who would come to be known across the land-- first kindled by hatred at his alleged, suspected involvement of the Conclave, then revered as their Herald of Andraste, and finally seemingly either respected or feared by all those in Thedas as the Inquisitor. He was the sort of person whose image seemed to ingrain itself into memory; piercing yellow eyes, large ones, dainty facial features that included shapely brows, high cheekbones, and a slender, angular jaw. The vallaslin on his face that marked him as Dalish began on his forehead and whisped upwards rather delicately, a second tattoo marking his chin similarly. His skin was only slightly sun-kissed, but it still contrasted against almost white-blond hair, which was shorn close to the skull on one side and flew in long locks everywhere else, braided in some sections. If it hadn't had been for his clear lack of certain appendages and his clear possession of the knot in his throat, those intricate details of the elf’s face, combined with the slenderness of his body, would have fooled Varric into thinking he was a female of his race. He hadn't, but that was only because he was well-aware elves simply tended to be aesthetically pleasing, even beautiful, men and women both.

This one was obviously no different, but he hadn't at all been what the dwarf was expecting, either.

It'd been hard to miss the staff slung across his back when he’d been found in the ashes and ruins--Maker's tits, Cassandra had almost had the elf hung for that alone, her Seeker senses fumbling to put two and two together to make four, via the simplest and most obvious--to her anyway--route possible, condemning the elf immediately. That and, the fact that nobody had been able to figure out just who he was, all of the elves that had been included on the guest list being accounted for being they were all, like everybody else who had been present, very dead. That had been a bit damning, admittedly suspicious, and Varric and Solas had spent what was close to hours arguing over the unconscious elf’s behalf anyway, albeit for different reasons. Varric had always been a sucker for being able to decipher the truthful bits of a story, distinguish it from the rest of the usually embellished or flat out dishonest bullshit people usually spewed when they were on trial for something. That, and the elf was clearly extremely young; probably no more than even twenty. Whatever he had to say when he awoke, if he even did, he had reminded Cassandra sternly, it was worth hearing. Solas, on the other hand, seemed more concerned with the mysterious, glowing green mark that was the cause of his illness, keeping him tethered to the Fade, comatose. He, with the assistance of the local alchemist, had been doing all he could to heal and rouse the towheaded elf, eager to ask him questions about the magic that had taken him. He had chastised Cassandra for being willing to use the boy as at scapegoat, how typical it was that the Chantry would see an elven mage and jump at the chance to blame him, and immediately begin to tie the noose. It had taken a lot for the Seeker to calm down and see reason, and Varric hadn't even been in that great of a position to argue with her, but he had.

And then Mahanon had woken up.

It was clear that the small elf was capable of a lot of power, very quickly. Still, he showed a great amount of discipline in regards to the magic he wielded, eyes sharp from the moment he had opened them, large ears lined with multiple gold hoops always listening, usually obscured from sight by a hood the elf usually wore. He was quiet, and observant, and he handled being interrogated better than most humans Varric had seen, let alone what most considered ‘wild’ elves, not flinching or growing angry with Cassandra once. That had impressed Varric, because when it had been he facing the pointy end of her sword, eyes ablaze with anger, he remembered he had been more than a bit miffed himself. 

He all but proved his innocence when he had sealed the first rift, something Varric had witnessed with his own eyes. He wouldn't have believed it through word of mouth alone, that a Dalish elf who had narrowly avoided being put to death before he was even conscious could mend the tears in the sky with the same hand that almost killed him, in more ways than one.

Over time Varric gathered up a few tidbits about the kid, including that before the sky was literally torn apart, he’d been First to the Keeper of Clan Lavellan. He knew that Dalish traditions differed from clan to clan, but that was a rather prestigious title, one that commanded respect among clans across the board as a constant. He also knew that any elf who had earned themselves the place of the First would probably be loathe to give that up--not that he had had a choice, but Mahanon hadn't ever complained about the loss, never even really spoke about his clan at all in the beginning unless pressed. 

Nobody had really known what to make of him in those days--even after he had proved his innocence, and traversed the lands in search of the seemingly endless amounts of wounds in the sky. He was an enigma, a wild elf who found himself in the largest of human affairs, one who actively avoided socialization when he could in favor for a solitary corner wherever he could find it.

That's why it had completely blindsided Varric when it became known he’d chosen the affections of none other than the company's mercenary qunari, The Iron Bull.

Exactly when or even how the elf had began his relationship with the great hulking mass of the man was a complete mystery to Varric. As a writer, a known story-teller, he was no stranger to plot twists, but that one had definitely thrown him for a loop. He had heard it first once they'd been settled in Skyhold for a few weeks, and he noticed Curly walk past him in the main hallway, face tomato red and features twisted with embarrassment. The commander being embarrassed about something was definitely a good enough reason to hassle him, and pry.

He had kept his eyes covered with a hand as he recounted the tale, one that, according to Cullen, involved a very naked qunari laying underneath their Inquisitor. Varric had laughed, said something about how he hadn't expected Cullen to have the amount of imagination conjuring that sort of image entailed. When the commander’s face had only grown impossibly redder, Varric’s eyebrows had shot straight up on his forehead and he'd only said one thing: “Oh, shit.”

The first things to cross his mind were perverse, or maybe it was just genuine curiosity, but he couldn't imagine how… how that worked. The second concern he harbored stemmed from the first, concerns regarding the Inquisitor’s physical well-being-- was he even alright?-- when he finally decided that those more… intimate details were of no concern to him, his third thought was immediately that he did not like it.

He hadn't taken their Inquisitor for a fool, and Varric himself had been suspicious of the qunari presence immediately; not enough to be unfriendly, or biased in any sort of way, but enough years in Kirkwall had taught him to be wary around those whose loyalties laid with the Qun. When Bull and his Chargers had been officially signed on to the Inquisition, Varric had figured he would introduce himself to the qunari, utilize the silver tongue he’d become so reliant on, in an effort to maybe fool the qunari and coax as much information out of him as he could. 

Within the first twenty seconds of the qunari opening his mouth, it was evident Varric had been the fool to misjudge him.

It was immediately apparent the qunari was as well-versed in the language of evasion and secrecy as he, clearly possessing something of a guilded tongue himself. His sharp intelligence and quick wit was something he showcased almost at once, as if he’d been planning on Varric coming to him, as if he had known what the dwarf had took him for. Varric was very aware that the man was analyzing him with his one able eye the entire time he spoke, his friendly and casual expression not quite teaching that eye. He was assessing him just as the dwarf had come to do, and Varric had no doubt he was forming a sort of mental list about him through the whole conversation. It had been short, a battle of wills, and when Varric had left it had been with an amicable smile but he somehow felt even more concerned than he had before.

He didn't dislike Iron Bull personally, even came to enjoy his company over the passing weeks, the both of them bumping into each other in the tavern on more than one occasion. They became fast drinking partners, communicating with each other as though they had been buddies for years. The qunari, despite his intimidating appearance, was actually rather easy to like. He didn't sugar-coat anything, always told the straight up truth, didn't diverge from its path to indulge in details of reasoning. His stories never wavered, or changed, and Varric appreciated that.

He’d also openly admitted to being an active spy for the Qun, and still managed to accompany Mahanon on near every outing, as his sort of personal body-guard, sometimes serving as the only thing standing between their Inquisitor and death.

So, yeah, Varric wasn't too crazy about that.

But he had kept his mouth shut, and his eyes open. And as the days passed, melting into weeks, so did the remnants of doubt he’d harbored pertaining to the qunari’s true intentions. He had seen enough in that time to at least believe within himself that what the unlikely pair shared was genuine. He saw it when he walked into Skyhold’s tavern and saw a giant pair of legs dangling from the rafters, a much smaller, more slender pair draped over his as Mahanon sat in his lap and they simply sat together, most times too busy with each other’s conversation to notice the onlookers below. Mahanon hadn't even stepped foot into the tavern before he and Bull had become close, and now he all but sought it out, sought Bull out, more specifically. 

He’d also accompanied the two on enough trips throughout the land to see it; the way the monster of a man kept his good eye trained on the lithe elf, how his hand moved to the small of his back when they traversed up the side of a steep, rocky cliff. He was faithfully always prepared to catch him in his giant hand should he slip, and he always wrapped those hands around the elf’s tiny waist to effortlessly hoist him up the last few feet to flat ground again. The little smile Mahanon always gave him after as he turned to offer his small hand to the beast of a man, as if he’d needed it. But Bull always took it and mirrored his smile, something being shared between them silently, in those little moments.

Varric had also seen it in battle, too, and that's when he’d really, truly known.

Mahanon had fast garnered a reputation for his magical prowess, the power he was capable of no secret to anybody, but nobody was invincible. He had blind spots, and Varric had turned in horror as he spotted one in the midst of their battle against the demons pouring from the rift in the air above them. They were in the Fallow Mire, on their way to rescue Inquisition soldiers who had been captured as a way to garner Mahanon’s attention, to lure him to the Avaar leader of the region. They had set off almost at once despite the knowledge that it was little more than a trap, but the constant rain and peals of thunder had slowed them considerably, their boots squelching in the muddy marshland underfoot, swamp water filling their soles. If the terrain wasn't enough to deal with, there'd been bogs full of undead corpses, armed with poisoned arrows or swords, in addition to the fact that the region hadn't been spared from the bright green rifts that seemed to addle every place they traveled to.

The pitch black of the sky, slippery mud it was difficult to find footing in, and the sheets of rain didn't make for the best battleground. They had fought their way through most of the undead, only for Mahanon’s hand to begin to tremble and glow, alerting them that a nearby rift was spewing demons from its mouth. 

They had sprang into action immediately, Varric immediately loading a sharp bolt into Bianca and aiming it for the first demon to swell from the ground. It made purchase with a sickening squelch, the demon shrieking even over the sounds of the pouring rain. from that point on, the battle had been a blur, until in his peripheral he had seen the grotesque, malformed shape that served as a despair demon’s face, all saggy, gray skin and huge, rodent-like teeth clothed in black robes. It was taking advantage of the fact that the rest of his victims companions were scattered as they battled their own foes. Mahanon himself had a hand raised to the rift, a bright green light connecting the anchor of his hand to the gash in the sky, in an attempt to weaken it before he could collapse it. He was much too concentrated to notice the malevolent-looking hand now reaching out for him, razor sharp claws almost upon him. Varric looked about wildly as he fended off the rage demon in front of him, sending an exploding bolt right into its chest. He could just make out Cassandra’s form through the shadows, off in the distance as she delivered a fierce kick to the square of a corpse’s chest and with a cry of effort sent it flying, barely having put her foot back down before she spun, slamming her shield into several more that had been charging her, toppling them all over in a heap of metal and bones. 

His hands were already loading another bolt, but he knew it would be too little too late, and that's when he’d seen The Iron Bull. 

He had come, seemingly, from no where--the last Varric had seen he looked just as busy as any of the others, if not more so, as he had been challenging several demons at the same time, trying to draw them away from whoever seemed the most overwhelmed. When the others hadn't been paying attention, Bull most certainly had, as he charged with a lightning speed a man of his size shouldn't have been capable of towards the despair demon, reaching out with a giant hand and actually grabbing the back of its head, yanking back to pull it from Mahanon just in time, using so much force it's head bent straight back at a grotesquely unnatural angle. It screamed horribly until Bull gave one more great tug and completely severed its head from its body, simply tossing it aside as if decapitating a demon with bare hands was a casual affair. Covered in gore and viscera, he had then stepped over the corpse to stand behind Mahanon as he closed the hole in the sky, the remnants of the despair demon fading into green whisps that curled at their feet as it disappated.

That image had burned an imprint in Varric’s mind, and Mahanon hadn't even seen it.

As the time passed, the others became aware of it too, and they had each shown their approval, or lack of, in different ways. With Sera, it was all crude jokes and chirpy sniggers, though not unkind, when they passed; it was all Cullen could do to look either one of the pair in the eye when he saw them, immediately going red from his neck to his ears when he saw them lumber from the Inquisitor’s quarters together, when he’d only wanted to confirm reports with the elf. Dorian was all but tickled pink about the pair, harassing Mahanon almost endlessly throughout the halls on how to properly perform a raunchy sex act or two and asking for details on the qunari’s… physique. Leliana had been suspicious as he was, at first, but that had given way to a small, wistful, almost sad smile playing about her features when she saw them, thought no one was looking. Josephine, despite her initial shock, was absolutely thrilled at the blooming romance, actually having used the word “cute” to describe it once. Cassandra wasn't much better, but Varric hadn't been surprised; the fierce and formidable woman was a slave to a good romance story. Maybe Solas disapproved, but he disapproved of almost everything people normally considered fun, or normal, so Varric didn't take his opinion into very much consideration. He had sort of always rubbed him the wrong way, anyway. He was pretty sure Vivienne was not amused, having had expressed her displeasure on the consequences the two of them seen together could entail, the qunari and the elf, concerned only for the image of the Inquisitor, the ballance of alliances. It wasn't surprising; she had never approved of anything that didn't also involve the improvement of her own status, so she wasn't too much of an enigma, either. And Blackwall, Varric was almost sure had at least actively listened in on the two when he'd been included on their journeys, and brought about his own pleasure from it. Maybe he hadn't meant to listen in, as it was hard not to hear them on nights spent in tents under the stars; Mahanon was quite loud, and even Varric had been able to see the silhouette of his slender form, back arched, moving up and down on Bull's lap behind the thin fabric of the tent they shared. They hadn't tried to be quiet, Blackwall had, but Varric still heard his heavy breathing and grunts anyway, having to push a pillow over his head to try and drown it all out.

It was clear that their relationship wasn't based around sex, though, contrary to proper belief. Once, they had been on an outing to the Forbidden Oasis, the moon held high in the star dappled sky, the sounds of water gently lapping against sand all coming together to coalesce into a sort of peaceful serenity Varric hadn't felt in quite some time. It had been hours since they had set up camp to rest, and he found he was unable to sleep, so he had elected to take himself to one of the pools on the outskirts of their camp, just simply be for a moment. He had lifted the flap of his tent and walked into the moonlight, smoke curling from the embers of the burnt-out fire in the center of all the tents. It was very quiet, the only sounds emanating from the waterfall in the near distance, which is where Varric found himself heading to. He was almost there before he stopped short though when he’d heard two voices, one very quiet, light, the other extremely deep, almost gravelly in texture. He had walked a few more paces, careful to stay out of the moonlight, his short form and the now roaring of the waterfall making it easy to keep himself concealed from view. He made out the immediately identifiable form of Iron Bull, who was submerged in the pool, though he was so large most of his body was out of the water, the huge span of his tattooed shoulders visible to Varric. His was hunched over a bit, prominent horns pointing a bit downwards, glistening in the mist from the waterfall breaking upon the rocks and sand. Varric knew he should have stopped looking then, simply turned and walked away, but curiosity cemented him to his spot where he stood. The qunari shifted a bit and the gleam of white-blond hair in the moonlight became apparent, the elf’s body having been shielded from his view by the great mass of the gray arms wrapped around him closely, protectively. He could see the glint off of the elf’s many earrings as Bull brought a hand down low, scooping some crystalline water in his great palm and bringing it up to wet Mahanon’s hair in intervals, the cool water dripping down his bare flesh in rivulets. He ran his fingers through his long hair, almost adoringly, as if they had found a patch of land where time did not touch, unburdened and unhurried by the world around them.

The elf looked as if he was the embodiment of serenity itself, looking more at peace than at least Varric could ever remember seeing him. His usually bright eyes were now closed, the corners of pretty lips tilted upwards in the smallest of smiles, like a smile one would experience in the physical world while their consciousness was in the realm of dreams. He had his head rested against the qunari’s massive chest, and although the elf was naked the qunari’s sheer mass hid him from sight, leaving only part of his legs and his upper body to sight. His smile widened into a grin as the Bull dipped his head low to whisper something in his ear, and Varric watched as the qunari began to plant tantalizingly slow kisses along the elf’s slender neck, causing Mahanon to tilt his head back and let out a small moan.

That was Varric’s cue to leave.

Just as he had turned to do so, however, he was almost startled out of his skin when he heard the qunari’s unmistakable voice booming through the night, over the sound of the waterfall and Varric’s own now-pounding heart. 

“Ah, that's a shame. I was genuinely curious to see if the dwarf would last longer than the Grey Warden did.” 

Varric’s face immediately reddened at the words, hearing a peal of laughter escape Mahanon as he turned to look at them, this time plainly, and not from the shadows. Mahanon was still giggling, looking up at Bull, while the larger man was staring straight at Varric with a huge, mischievous smirk across his features, one that told him he’d been caught. 

He chuckled nervously, unable to properly form an excuse in his head and voice it before Bull spoke again. “Just messin’ with you, dwarf. Besides, Boss and I don't really mind onlookers--you could just ask, next time.” When he leaned back and smacked Mahanon’s ass, winking at Varric, the dwarf had all but paled, causing Bull to throw his head back in a great laugh. 

“Goodnight, Varric. Unless you really do--”

Varric had been off with that, his feet carrying him back to camp quickly, until the laughter was once drowned out again by the sound of running water and even those sounding muted by the time he had reached the encampment. He splashed his face with cool water, somehow feeling the need to bathe even more now than he had before he had venture to the waterfall. 

At least they had picked a place of solitude this time; well, at least until Varric had stumbled along.

He recounted the wink the qunari shot him, all the things he had managed to convey with the action. Yeah; he had definitely been wrong, borderline foolish to underestimate him, that was for sure. Varric also knew something else for certain, and that was that he trusted the man with the life of their elf completely, and was more than glad he had not only joined their party but given Mahanon a reason to smile, time and time again.

...Even if it was at his expense, this time.


End file.
